The Things One Doesn't Expect
by WillofThePsycho
Summary: Owen's life sucks, to put it bluntly. But, given his situation, he's not your average boy, and neither are the people he meets. But what will become of his life story? -currently being written, first story, please be kind-
1. Chapter 1

_The Things One Doesn't Expect_

_Part One_

_I… didn't do anything wrong… _

_ I'm sorry…_

_ Please stop hurting me…_

All the boy can do is plead silently that today's torture will end soon. He prays that their feet will stop striking him and that their punches stop flying at him. He doesn't understand what they have against him. He doesn't get why nearly every day now, these other boys decide to hurt him.

This boy is Owen. He is only fourteen, a cute little brunette with green eyes so bright and vibrant that one would thing they were radioactive. And Owen never lets them become dim with sadness, not even when these jerks decide to beat the living crap out of him.

He silently waits for the kicking and punching and hitting to stop, for them to walk away and move on. They eventually do, which makes Owen sigh in relief. He picks himself up, wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth, and drags his yet again sore body home.

But no one there cares very much. His father disappeared without a trace when he was only five, and his mother has become addicted to drugs, making her nearly completely oblivious to her son's pain and agony. She greets him with only a wave as he enters the small, smoke-smelling house, for she is too absorbed in whatever it is she's watching on the television to pay attention to Owen's fresh wounds. He sighs and trudges down the hall, to the bathroom.

Once there, he takes off his shirt and inspects what damage has been done to him today. He sees at least four new bruises forming on his abnormally skinny abdomen, another near his collar bone, and a scrape on his left cheek. _Not too bad… _he thinks as he pulls out the first aid kit which he has stashed in the medicine cabinet, top shelf.

He pulls out a square, white bandage and attaches it to his face with medical tape, now covering the cut. And since there's not much one can do for bruises, he simply shuts the case and replaces it back in the cabinet.

Sadly, this has become a daily routine for Owen. School ends, gets beat up, goes home, bandages wounds. He doubts he can even feel that much pain anymore, after all that he's gone through with the bullies at school (but, if one were to look on the bright side, which Owen tries to do, he now knows how to affectively bandage every wound from tiny scrapes to large holes in one's forearm).

But he knows that's not true.

There was a time when he accidently pissed off one of the kids that usually beats on him. He had said something along the lines of "I don't really care about your opinion" when the boy had said that Owen's sweatshirt made him look like a hobo, and that really set the guy off. He dragged poor little Owen, who was only thirteen at the time, behind the school building, and began ruthlessly kicking him, over and over and over again. To our little brunette, it seemed to go on for hours, like the pain would just never end.

But finally, the boy got bored and walked away, leaving Owen lying still on the pavement; for all the other kid knew, Owen could have been dead.

But no, this boy does not go down that easily. He waited until he was absolutely sure the mean boy had left, and then sat up, but immediately wished he hadn't.

His ribs _hurt._

They hurt like _hell_.

His breath hitched in his throat, for even the simple act of breathing sent more and more spikes of pain through his ribs. _One or two of them have _got _to be broken, if it hurts this much…_ he had thought then, one hand now clutching at his chest.

He never found out of he was correct. Of course his mother never took him to the hospital; she had said "Just suck it up, you big baby." And Owen had no one else to help him.

The ribs eventually healed, but most definitely in the wrong position, and they still throb with a dull ache sometimes, mainly after he moves a lot (gym class is real torture for him, and everyone knows it).

In fact, just thinking about it is making the pain flare up again, and suddenly, breathing became a bit harder in the already smoky area. He coughs a bit, then stands and heads for his room, stumbling quite a lot as he walks.

Owen is rather fond of his room, surprisingly. It is small with only one window and a lamp on the bedside table for light, but the brunette never does need much light to see. A simple braided rug covers most of the floor and a regular sized bureau stands against the wall next to the door. His closet is a simple, one-door-ed space for his shirts; and there is one bookshelf, which is almost filled with books that Owen cherishes. His bed is a normal sized twin bed that his father had found at the dump and fixed up for him a year before he disappeared. Owen always treasures this bed because one, his father had basically made it for him, and two, there are some very important memories with it, both good and bad.

There is one time he remembers, back when his mother had first gotten high off of her drugs. That was also a day when Owen had come home late from school (of course because he'd been bullied again), and his mother was _not_ happy about that. She screamed at her son in that kind of slurred speech one gets and managed to scare poor little Owen out of his wits. And that's when she'd hit him.

He had tried to tell her what happened, that it wasn't his fault, that he'd actually been hurt by other kids at school. But she wouldn't hear it. And to get him to stop talking, she'd slapped him. Hard.

He'd then run crying to his room and buried his face in his pillow, his cheek stinging like hell. But the cool, smooth sheets of the bed and the soft case of the pillow had made him feel better. They caressed his bruised and battered skin as he relaxed into the bed, slowly feeling more and more at ease. And there he had stayed for the rest of the night, in his bed, thinking about the softness and comfort of his bed which his father had made for him. He kept coming back to the thought that _maybe my father's spirit is here… maybe some of him entered the bed as he made it… and maybe he's the one making me feel better… _

And as Owen remembers this sad but also quite fond memory, he climbs into that same bed, though it has grown a bit small for him now. He curls up into a tight ball and sighs, for his bruises hurt and the cut on his face stings almost like that horrid slap. He wishes for this day to end, for it has been filled with too many unpleasant memories and saddening events. He just wants it to be over….

He then hears a crash from the kitchen, and knows it's his mother. _Should I check on her…? She's usually okay, _he thinks as he contemplates his options. But he can't control himself as he rolls out of his welcoming bed and trudges to the kitchen.

When he gets there, he realizes that his mother has dropped another glass because of her ever shaky hands. "You really must be more careful, mother…" he says quietly as he bends down to pick up the broken glass.

"Filthy mutt…" she mutters back, and then takes another drag of whatever it is she's smoking today. "Just pick that up and leave me."

_Filthy mutt, huh? She must be feeling particularly spiteful today… _he notes, for that is one of her choice insults and uses it whenever she's in an extremely bad mood. But a simple "Yes, ma'am" is all he replies with.

But she seems even more set off by that. Making an annoyed noise, she states, "You dirty mongrel. I don't care how much you suck up to me; you'll never be the man my husband was."

"My husband"… She never refers to him as "your father". Not once. Though Owen never could figure out why. "I'm sorry, mother," he mumbles.

"I thought I told you not to suck up to me!" she suddenly screams. "And never call me that horrid name, you scum!" her leg then goes flying out and connects with Owen's right shoulder, which send him into one of the lower kitchen cabinets.

He winces a bit and drops the glass shards. He realizes that he accidently clenched his fist down on them when he'd been kicked and they have sliced his palm open. He whimpers, and then makes a mad dash for the bathroom. "Tha's right! Run, ya dirty rat!" she yells after him, her speech becoming more slurred.

Owen ignores her as usual and clamps down on his hand to stop the bleeding. He yanks the first aid kit down and immediately pulls out the peroxide, then dumps some on the wound. It stings, of course, but it's nothing that Owen isn't used to. He has much haste while wrapping the slice in clean bandages, and uses another piece of medical tape to seal it. Sighing, he washes off the blood from his uninjured hand, returns the medical kit, and shuffles off down the hall and to his room.

He makes sure to close the door after he enters, then flops down onto the bed in a tired manner. His freshly beaten body begins to protest against the simplest of movements and Owen knows that he is going to be very sore in the morning; but again, nothing he hasn't dealt with before.

And it's at these times, the times when he's just lying there, staring blankly at the ceiling, that any normal kid in his situation would rant about how they hate their life or how the world would be better off without him. But not Owen, he's different.

He lets his thoughts drift off into the world of the unknown, where he can daydream and think and just do whatever he wishes. He loves this little world he's made in his head, and loves that it's always there when it needs to be. It'll never leave him in his time of need, his time of escape.

And his thoughts here are always so positive. He thinks about the future, what he could do as a career, or a job, or what kind of family he might have. He also daydreams abut fantastic lands and makes up characters who can live there, and almost makes a movie in his head. With his imagination, he can do anything.

He never thinks of anything such as people in his situation might. Not once has a thought of cutting himself or doing some kind of delinquent activity crossed his mind, for he doesn't see a point in it. He knows that something good always happens to those who wait, and to those who _deserve it_.

And all of this always makes Owen so incredibly happy. It reminds him that there's more to the world than what he sees on a daily basis; he knows there's some good out there.

He just has to find it.

_Ah, well, not today, I suppose,_ he thinks as he starts to drift into sleep. _But… maybe tomorrow… maybe something will happen… tomorrow…_

_END PART ONE_

_A/N:_ Hey guys! So this is my first original story (even though I've got tons of ideas) and yeah hoped you like the first part C: second one's done and probably gonna be uploaded soon~

And btw, this is only under misc. books because I couldn't find anywhere else to put it XD


	2. Chapter 2

_The Things One Doesn't Expect_

_Part Two_

Owen always sits in the back of the classroom. Not once has he ever sat up past the third row of desks.

You see, he hates drawing attention to himself by raising his hand, so he figures if he sits in the back, no one will notice he's there. Of course, the teachers do, and they ask him to answer a question occasionally; he gets them all right.

The teachers then always ask him why, if he's so smart, he doesn't pass their classes with flying colors. He always says it's because he has a horrible memory and can never remember to do homework, but that is far from the truth.

The reason he only gets by in classes is because of homework, yes, but he always remembers what it is. But he can never do it.

His nights usually go such as the previous one did. School gets out, he gets beat on or picked on, he gets home about a half hour later (for he _does_ have to walk a good mile to get home), then the usual troubles ensue once he arrives.

So his reasons for not doing homework vary: he could be caring for is once-again-high- mother and then taking care of himself, or he could just go straight to bed after a particularly hard beating that follows school. Of course he sometimes can slip in a few assignments, but he typically gets close to nothing done.

And now he sits there, tapping his pencil lightly on his chin and contemplating the universe. It may not seem it, but Owen can be quite deep when he wants to be. In fact, on the rare occasion that he speaks, it's commonly something very profound, almost arcane (though there are the sparse times when one can strike up a casual conversation with him).

Anyway, this brunette is now very deep in thought about what the world would be like without trees. He's been at it for nearly the whole class period. He also doesn't seem to care very much about what the teacher is saying, a glazed over look taking over his eyes.

Now little Owen here hardly pays attention in class. He feels he doesn't need to, for he reads a lot on his own time.

On the weekends when his mother is off gambling and he doesn't feel like doing his homework, he takes a short trip down to the public library; he checks out about four books, and spends the weekend reading them, absorbing their information like a sponge (though his favorite genre is science fiction).

And it is at this time that Owen now finds his thoughts drifting more towards that area, and he is even more immersed in his own contemplations. He really does enjoy this, however, because he feels more secure in his own head than anywhere else.

So right now, he is on a pirate ship drifting through the stars, like some space adventurer. His crew is running about, securing ropes and all that, as he stares out across the vast, dark horizon. He stands up at the crow's nest, which is his favorite spot on the entire ship. It is here that he gets time alone to watch over his crew and make sure all goes according to plan. But then, suddenly, his boat is thrown to the side and he can smell smoke. People are running about and shouting, enemy pirates are climbing aboard, and Owen is just standing there, watching the madness. And then he can hear something; something small and quiet. It rises out of the chaos below on deck until it's the only thing the brunette can hear.

It's his name.

It's being whispered over and over again, and then it slowly gets louder.

Owen is then snapped out of his wonderful day dream, only to find the teacher staring down at him with a glare.

"Class was over five minutes ago," she snaps. "But when the bell rang, you didn't budge."

"Sorry…" he mumbles, gathering his things. "Must've dozed off…"

The teacher then sighs and her gaze softens. "Look, Owen, you're a smart kid, I know that. But why do I keep catching you zoning out in class? Do you even _care_ that you're only getting a C-minus? It would do you some good to actually pay attention once in a while."

"I'm sorry…" the boy mumbles again, and is sure not to make eye contact; he doesn't want to see the sympathy there. "But, um, I should get to my next class… I don't wanna be late."

At this, the teacher backs off. She walks back to her desk and takes a seat with another sigh. "Okay, okay, go. But this conversation isn't over, I hope you realize that."

Owen just nods and quickly shuffles out of the room.

_*.*.*_

I have never been so bored in my entire life.

Someone get me out of here.

I can't take his droning anymore.

So here I sit, in the middle of science class, the teach going on and on about the anatomy of an earthworm, and I'm bored out of my ever-living mind. I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if the teacher was actually _good looking _or _fun; _but I don't think he'd know the meaning of those words.

And yes, I said "he". I'm gay. Got a problem with that? No? Good (Yeah, you'll hear me mention it quite often, get used to it).

Anyway, so I'm sitting here in class when something peculiar catches my eye.

To my right and up one row, there sits a small kid, a brunette. He's staring at the black board with a faraway look, and every so often, his eyebrow twitches like he's thinking really hard. The odd thing is, I've never noticed him before…

You see, I think of myself as a pretty observant person, or at least with my classmates. So for me not to notice someone, it's kind of weird. Either they're new, or just really, _really_ quiet. But this kid is most certainly not new. So who is he…?

And now I find myself staring at the back of his head. _Oops… He'll think I'm some kind of stalker… _

I tear my gaze away and shift some of my long, strawberry blonde bangs in front of my eye (though it's a bit difficult due to my glasses). But I can't keep my eyes off of him, as creepy as that may sound. My sight keeps shifting back towards him, as if some kind of magnet is pulling me there. And it's now that I realize I _need_ to chat with this kid, at least find out his name.

So, just to make things less awkward, I pull all of my long bangs down in front of my eyes so it covers them, and part of my nose too. I've noticed that if I style my bangs in just the right way, then no one can see my eyes or even part of my expression. And it's now that I can finally stare at this kid (please don't think of me as some kind of creeper rapist thing, I swear I'm not), and try to remember him.

Strange thing is... I can't remember this kid for my life. I'm pretty sure he's only in my science class, and that he's never raised his hand, gotten up to leave, or answered a question the entire year. Now, it _is_ only the beginning of November, but you'd think I'd at least remember him from the first day when we all had to introduce ourselves or _something_. But _no. _I have _nothing_ here. God damn it, kid, who are you...?

I'm so absorbed in my thoughts and contemplations that I don't notice the bell has rung until the girl who sits behind me taps me on the shoulder. I turn to her with an intelligent, "Huh?"

She giggles at my stupidity and bats her eyelashes. "U-um..." She stammers nervously. "P-pretty boring lecture, eh? He didn't seem like he'd shut up even if the room next door exploded." She looks at me with big eyes, expecting me to laugh or something.

I offer her a smile as I clear the bangs from my face and stand up. "Yeah, you're right, he was pretty monotonous." Yeah, that's right, I know big words, too. "But hey, gotta stay awake lest he slap you with a ruler again." At this, her cheeks go pink.

"Y-you remember that...?" She asks nervously, and I nod.

A couple weeks ago, she'd fallen asleep and the entire class could hear her snoring. So our teacher had taken a meter stick from against the wall, stalked to the back of the class, and proceeded to slam the stick on the desk as hard as he could, making everyone jump. Of course, including this poor girl. Now she didn't just start awake, no, she yelped and literally fell out of her chair out of shock. Laughter of course ensued which thoroughly embarrassed the chick, and I was the only one who talked to her for the next two days.

Hey, I only asked her if she was okay. But she somehow took this as "Even though I'm gay and everybody in the school knows it, I'm interested in _you_. A _female_."

Anyway, I shrug and say, "It's no big deal, I'm sure no one remembers it."

This seems to brighten her mood, and I'm happy for a moment that I could lessen her nervousness. But then, everything backfires and she says, "Y'know, you're really sweet. I was thinking, um... Maybe we could, uh... Hang out sometime...?"

Now one must understand that this isn't the first time a girl has asked me out. I mean, I _am_ nice, funny, sweet, and pretty hot, not to toot my own horn or anything. So I know how to turn down a chick and make sure they don't crash and burn.

Though I do wonder... Did this girl not get the memo? I figured that, at least by stereotypes, everyone would've figured it out when I came into school the other day with neon purple skinny jeans (that I looked awesome in, just saying).

"Um, well, y'see, my door doesn't exactly swing in the direction of girls, if you know what I mean," I state. Okay, I'll admit I'm not _that_ smooth.

At this, her face falls and she looks let down. "Oh... S-sorry for asking then..."

I nearly wince at her words. "No, no, you don't need to apologize. It usually takes people a while to figure it out." Not. "But, uh, being friends is still cool, right?"

She just nods, then bolts for the door, completely embarrassed, and kind of looks like she's about to cry. _Dammit, Scott, learn to use words better,_ I scold myself.

I shake my head and head out of class, my backpack casually slung over one shoulder. It's now that I realize I totally forgot my goal: to find that kid and talk with him.

So I pick up my speed in hopes of catching up with him; I mean, class just ended, so he can't be too far away, can he?

But I realize all is lost.

He's gone.

_Dammit..._

_ Maybe tomorrow._

Little did I know that I'd be saying that for a good... Long... While... Damn.


	3. Chapter 3

_Part Three_

He's all I can think about. Every day. Every passing minute. He's on my mind.

What the hell is going on with me?

I've never felt this way before. I mean, yeah, I've had boyfriends before-

... Ok. _A_ boyfriend. And then he ended up being straight...

But never mind that. My point is, I haven't stopped contemplating the sudden knowledge of this random kid from my biology class that I'm positive I've never even came close to speaking to before. And it's been about two days since I became aware of his existence, and I've hardly eaten or slept. Curse you, brain, I officially hate you.

Anyway, I have biology again today. And I find myself dreading it, but also feeling like if it doesn't come fast enough, I'll explode. God damnit, what's happening here?

Geometry goes by wicked slow. I mean, how many different equations can one use to find area? Apparently a hell of a lot. And P.E. is like pulling teeth. I remember getting hit in the face multiple times by a dodge ball, and my friend Adrian laughing his ass off at me, then after class asking me what's up. I tell him it's nothing, that I just got tons on my mind right now. He drops the subject for now, then goes on about some new chick in his algebra class (oh, freshmen), which he knows I don't care about. And now there's only one more class between me and the kid. I usually love English, especially since we're reading _Dracula_. Don't get me wrong, it's an awesome book, but reading is the last thing I want to do. I'm glaring at the clock in extreme frustration, willing time to move a thousand times faster than it is. But come to think of it, I think that time is a little off-

"Scott!" I'm startled by my name being barked so suddenly.

"Duh-wha?" I mutter intelligently, and I can hear some snickers behind me.

"Would you like to stop glaring at the _broken_ clock and answer my question?" she retorts, her nose all scrunched up like it does when she gets aggravated.

I can feel my face flushing. _Idiot... How could you not realize the damn thing was broken...?_ "Um... Wh-what was the question..?" I stammer in embarrassment.

The teacher sighs and rolls her eyes at me. I really want to smack her right then, but sadly, that action seems to be frowned upon in this establishment. Just then, the bell rings, ever my savior.

I grab my books, tuck them under my arm, and make a mad dash for the door. Next thing I know, I'm sliding around the corner, racing down the hall, nearly killing people on the stairs, and peeling out in front of my classroom door. I can hear papers settling behind me and people mumbling about "some crazy-ass kid on steroids," but I don't care.

I smooth down my hair, which has decided to stick up in a thousand different directions after that little escapade, then take a deep breath. _You can do it, Scott, you can do it..._, I encourage myself.

Stepping through the door, a few pairs of eyes turn to glance at me, but quickly go back to the desk, board, or notebooks. But my eyes? They go directly to him.

He's seated in that same back-middle corner, as he was two days ago when I first spotted him. But this time, I don't sit in my usual spot; I slowly side into the empty seat on his right.

I get a few dirty stares, for I have ultimately messed up the arrangement of the room that everyone usually finds themselves in (even though there isn't any assigned seating, people are just too lazy to find new seats every day). But I couldn't care less. This is my moment to shine here, people, and I won't let you ruin it.

But my hopes, however, have been a bit deflated. Even though I've been sitting for a full two minutes now, he has failed to take note of my being there. He just keeps coloring in the squares on his graphing paper, making some kind of weird shape, as far as I can see. I not-so-gently but my black and red messenger bag on the ground, its contents shifting a tad as it hits the floor, and began rummaging through it as I mull over the situation.

Sadly, he has not yet noticed me still. _Think, dude, think. You have to somehow strike up a conversation or something with this guy, or all is lost. _And again, sadly, nothing is coming to mind. _Maybe, ever so slightly, tap him with your pencil? Or ask to borrow his, then see if he "caught the game last night," or something? Oh come on, _you _didn't even see it. You hate sports. _

_Whatever, just get on with it_.

I cough quietly as I sit up, notebook in hand, but pencil absent from sight (it's actually in my pocket). "Um.." I start. "Do you have an extra pencil I could borrow...?"

He stops doodling, slowly turns his head my direction, and my breath catches in my throat. He has the most dazzling green eyes. They're like looking into shinning, sparkly emeralds; and these emeralds are being illuminated with the brightest light of the universe, even brighter than the sun. And this light is bouncing off them in such a way that one cannot help but stare in complete shock and awe, for it's the most unique of things. But even so, this perfect scenario just cannot compare to the glint of... Something. _Je ne se pas._ In those eyes...

Little did I know that from that day on, those eyes would never cease to mesmerize me.

Never.

_(A/N: Hey guys! Yet another installment has been postificated C: sooo this one's a tad bit short, but that's cuz vacation was NOT as laid back as I thought it was gonna be -_- but anyway, new character, Adrian, who will come up later, and hooooowwww will Owen respond to this new person who is crushing madly? ;3 thanks for reading!)_


	4. Chapter 4

_Part Four_

Owen is severely on edge. For once, things are actually going good.

No one has shoved him in the hallway today, no one has glanced at him and made a weird-ed out face, but the oddest part was just about to come his way.

He got to biology early and decided to doodle a bit in his notebook while letting his thoughts wonder. After coloring in a random shape with graph squares, he'd come to the conclusion that the world would end not in some fiery death and doom, but with a simple _poof_. Nothing huge, nothing flashy, just something tiny. _It's only what we deserve, really... Humans aren't worth some huge sha-bang-_

And just then, his thoughts are interrupted, and by something he absolutely least expects.

_Someone sat down next to me..._ He thinks, suddenly slight alarmed. He begins to think that his good day was just a false alarm, that his life isn't really looking up, that this is a sign he is going to get the crap beat out of him after school.

But as he ever-so-slowly turns his gaze to the person at his side, being sure not to move his head, he is again struck with a realization: this isn't one of the bullies that tries to bash his skull in. It's the popular, rumored to be gay, kid that normally takes a place somewhere behind the brunette. Owen doesn't know much about this guy, except that the ladies swoon over him, and he's got the most interesting wardrobe of pants. Currently, he's wearing green skinnys that start dark at the top, then slowly fade down to neon green at the ankle. Owen has to admit, they're really cool looking, and this kid pulls them off extremely well.

After making quite the commotion with his bag, the new kid turns to face the board, but is playing awkwardly with his hands. Owen raises one eyebrow discreetly.

"Hey, do you have a pencil I could borrow?" the guy asks, sounding almost... What was that, nervous?

The brunette finally moves his head and blinks a few times at the new kid. He looks him up and down, getting a full image of the boy. He's got shoulder length strawberry blonde hair that swoops down halfway over his left eye, which is quite the interesting style, Owen has to admit. A pair of simple, square framed, black glasses are perched atop his nose. He's clothed in a simple black tee on with the insignia of some band Owen has never heard of, and a sweatshirt is draped over his shoulders. The sweatshirt is simple: a nice deep blue with white inside the hood and jacket, and a white pinstripe running down the sleeves. But it's the shoes that really catch everyone's eye; they're Converse, but with Batman comics all over them.

Now, Owen doesn't seem like it, but comic books are a huge part of his life.

When he's running from the bullies after school, one of his popular hide-outs is the comic store. The cashier has come to know him well and always give him a nice discount on anything he buys, which is never much. But, these various and sundry comics are another way for him to escape.

It's always been entertaining for Owen to slip into the shoes of one of the characters in a manga or cartoon, interact with the other characters, and go throughout the story in his own way. It's not the most normal thing, no, but with his life, he has the right not to be the least bit normal.

Accidentally, Owen has zoned out on the other kids shoes without answering the question. Shaking his head and coming back to reality, he looks up at the other boy and says, "Sure," with a simple nod.

He quickly produces a pencil from his backpack and hands it over. Before the object barely leaves his hand, the kid asks another question, "What's your name?"

It sounds a bit blurted out to the smaller boy, but answers anyway. "Name's Owen," he responds simply but quietly. "And you?"

"I'm Scott. Nice you meet you," the blonde replies in a cheery tone. Scott shoots Owen a large smile, but only gets a quizzical stare back. As he notices the odd look, the smile slowly slides off Scott's face. "Uh, what? Is there something in my teeth?" he asks innocently.

Owen just shakes his head, then goes back to doodling. _What was _that..._? _He wonders silently. _He seems nice enough, but... Strange. And why is he so happy to receive a pencil from a total stranger?_

But, he doesn't think too much of it. After all, he has met stranger people before; maybe this kid just... Really likes pencils.

The last bell of the day sounds with its usual obnoxious ringing, and everyone rushes for the door. Owen gathers his things and tosses his backpack over one shoulder, but then feels a sudden tapping on his wrist.

It's that kid from before, Scott. "You, um, want this back?" he asks, holding out the number 2 he borrowed.

"Oh, yeah, thanks," Owen replies simply, not really caring all too much about receiving his writing utensil back. He pays the boy no more mind as he walks casually from the classroom.

*.*.*

As Owen cuts across the school parking lot and heads for the street, he begins thinking to himself, something he seemed to be doing a lot of recently. _Maybe that's why today felt so weird: because I was going to meet someone new. Just maybe. Or maybe I'm crazy and am making this out to be way more than it really is. Hell, I'll probably never see that guy... Scott, ever again. Oh well, might as well just chuck this day up on the list of slightly good days and move on._

Sadly, he was very wrong to do so.

"Hey, butt wad!" calls a gruff voice from behind him. Every part of Owen groans.

The voice, which he knows well, belongs to the boy that beats on the poor brunette the worst out of anyone. He's got huge muscles due to too many steroids, which he's constantly hopped up on; his feet are pretty much like tiny boats, always covered in a steal tip; and his face... Well, not even a mother could love it. It's scarred from so many afterschool fights and run ins with drunks (sometimes the drunk being him), and all of this messing up hasn't left him with the prettiest of facial features.

Owen can hear those heavy, booted footsteps getting closer and closer. He's not alone; by the sound of it, he's got at least two other boys with him. Soon, all six of these feet have caught up with him, and Owen can feel the heat of their breath on the back of his neck.

"What do you want, Boris..." he mutters, not caring how sharp and impolite his tone is. By now, he's stopped giving a crap about how he sounds to this kid, Boris, because either way, Owen is going to get the shit kicked out of him.

"I wanna be a millionaire and have lots a' sexy ladies hangin' on my arms," the brute replies in a snide manner; Owen can tell by his broken speech that he's got god-knows-what flowing through his system. This only makes his fear and dread grow.

The tiny boy finally turns to face his opponents. "Please, just leave me alone.." he mumbles, trying not to sound too pleading.

"Why would we do that?" prompts one of the other boys, but quickly shuts it when Boris shoots him a look. The large bully then glares at Owen with small, piercing eyes, almost like bird eyes. "Well, sunshine, what'll it be t'day? How 'bout some eggs, scrambled, maybe? Or a nice, big pile a' bacon, extra crispy?" he taunts.

Owen is completely confused by the boy's metaphors, if one can call them that. But he pushes it aside, writing it off as more of Boris' drugged up talk, and then slowly starts to back away. Unfortunately, Boris isn't so drugged as to not notice one backing out of his torturing (he's become very adept at being aware of this). "Woah, where you goin', pretty boy?" he asks, laughing suddenly.

He's still laughing as he swings at Owen, making his over-sized, meatball of a fist connect with the smaller's left cheek. Owen lets out a small whimper as he stumbles backwards slaps a hand over his swelling skin. The noise, though, just provokes more beatings from the larger boy.

Boris shoves Owen down onto the ground, then brings his knee to meet the side of Owen's head. The brunette then finds himself on his side, bits of gravel mixing with his saliva. He thinks he can feel some blood trickling down from near his temple, but he's not entirely sure. He can kind of feel the world turning beneath him, but that's probably due to the blunt force just delivered to his head.

It's then that Owen makes a very large mistake: he tries to get up. This, of course, just fuels the bullies' anger more. They all start kicking him ruthlessly, their boot tips digging into his ribs and every other part of his body. Sadly, Owen knows these feelings all too well.

And now, he succumbs to it. He just lies there, curled up in a small ball, or as small as his already aching body will allow him to be, and waits. _So many times... Have I been here... Dear god, when will it end...? When will they find someone else to pick on so... Harmfully...?_ He hates to wish his own misery upon others, but it's at times like these where his faith in life starts to slip. The longer the beating goes on for, the more he begins to think: _why am I even here? Why do I put up with it?_

And in dire straits, this horrid thought even crosses his mind: _why am I even dealing with such a lame existence? Am I too much a coward to end it?_

But of course, afterwards, he kicks himself mentally. After all he's preached silently, about there always being a bright side, about there always being a happy ending, about how those who end up in his situation always come out stronger, he still manages to think such terrible things. Suicide has been a topic on his mind before, being more and more popular over the past year or so, but it's only brought up at times like the present one; at times where he really can't see any hope except that maybe they'll get bored with him sooner than usual.

But, this time, he doesn't have to worry about them getting bored and wandering off. A loud, strong voice cuts through the maniacal laughter of Owen's tormenters.

"Back of," it says steadily. Owen opens one eye to see who has spoken, who has come to his rescue, and it completely and utterly flabbergasted at who he finds.

It's Scott, the pencil-lover from biology class, standing before the scene like some guardian angel to the small brunette.

Owen breaths a tiny sigh of relief, but also of astonishment. "S-Scott...?" he croaks out. "What-" he doesn't get to finish, however, because another boot his driven into his stomach. He moans quietly and tries to curl up tighter, but has little success.

"Shut up!" barks one of the overdosed dopes.

"Hey," Scott snaps back, his stare like ice. "Lay off him. Unless you want to know how _that_ feels."

Boris sneers at the intruder, then grabs the back of Owen's head by his hair. Pulling on it, the brunette is forced to lift his face to Scott, a large grimace plastered on it. Blood stretches from his temple to his chin, making a long, red path down one of his cheeks and passing over his eye. One nostril has a tiny bit of blood trickling from it due to a misplaced boot that had been intended for his neck; had it made contact with its target, Owen would probably be a lot worse off. But on the other hand, this had been one of his worst beatings in quite some time. _Why today of all days..._? he has to wonder.

He can see Scott clenching and unclenching his fists, and rage is emanating off him. "Leave him alone, and we won't have a problem here, alright?" he seethes.

All three idiots seem to contemplate this for a moment. The ringleader, Boris, finally decides to make the executive decision and grumbles, "Fine. But this ain't over, pretty boy. Just you wait..."

As they stumble and stomp away, the blonde rushes to Owen's side. "Are you ok? Can you stand?" he asks quickly. Owen can swear he sees something of sympathy in those bright blue eyes, but it's been so long since he's seen anything like that, it's hard to tell.

"Mhm..." the again bruised and battered boy groans softly. He uses the hand offered to him by the other to get to his feet, but still leans on Scott for support as the world violently spins.

"Come on," the strawberry blonde states in a gentle tone. "I'll take you home-"

He stops himself with the sudden shaking of Owen's head. "No... Dun' wanna go there.." he mumbles. After all this crap, he can't bear to see his mother, especially since by now, she'll be in her usual drunken stupor.

Scott is silent for a moment, but comes up with a solution anyhow. "Fine then. You're coming home with me. Let's go."

_(A/N: Hallo again! So this is long, and probably has a lot more in it than need be, but hey, why not? I really wanted to get to Scott and Owen meeting, so I crammed it in XD what do you think? Too rushed? I mean, it had Owen's typical reaction first, but then... more happened. Also with that, too violent, you think? Sorry, that's kind of my specialty: dark stuff C: but anyway, thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing and favoriting and all that! I'm so flattered that peeps like my stuff ; w; so yeah part five! Coming up next!)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

_Why are you letting him do this for you..? _the injured brunette scolds himself silently. _Take back what you said! Go home now!_

"U-um..." Owen pipes up. "Y-you don't have to do this..." he mumbles as he leans on the other for support. The particularly hard beating had taken quite some strength out of him, and he now depended greatly on Scott to keep him from falling over. "I should get home a-anyway..."

"No way," Scott replies quickly. "You said you didn't want to go back there. That look on your face... I've seen it enough to know what it means.."

Surprisingly, the blonde doesn't ask any more questions, even though he has implied that he knows about Owen's home life. He simply keeps walking, never taking his eyes off the horizon ahead of them.

As the two move along the sidewalk, passing numerous houses and small businesses, they keep silent. That is, until Owen feels himself swoon a bit. He soon finds himself on his hands and knees, his knees and lower leg stinging quite a bit. "Are you ok?" Scott asks worriedly. "You just suddenly fell, I thought you'd passed out." A look of much concern was plastered on his face.

Owen was about to respond when his breath catches in his throat. He coughs and gags until a bit of ugly-colored phlegm comes from his mouth and splatters on the sidewalk. "Ah..." he mutters while staring at it, shaking just a bit. "That.. Isn't good..."

"It's fine, you've just been coughing a lot since we left the school. Your lungs are doing over-time," the strawberry blonde replies with a surprisingly even tone. Though, when Owen looks up to meet his eyes, he sees a fleeting image of something like serious worry. "Do you feel alright enough to walk the rest of the way home?"

The smaller of the two nods, but as he tries to stand, a stabbing pain in his gut makes him stop. Another sudden wave of dizziness hits him, but Scott is right there to catch him. "Alright, fine, I'll just carry you," he says simply.

"Oh no you don't," Owen stammers quickly, and hauls himself to his feet. His body groans and aches with protest, but the brunette will _not_ have anyone carry him. _I've already imposed enough on him today, never mind having him _carry _me back to _his _house._

Scott gives the other a questioning but concerned glance. "Just a second ago, you were on the ground, coughing up crap. And you expect me to believe you can still walk?" He receives a curt nod from the other, which warrants a sigh. "Fine. It's not far anyway..."

The two keep in silence as they close the gap between them and the house. It's of decent size and is covered in a white-ish beige color, with a long driveway leading up to two big garage doors. To the left of the garage is a large farmer's porch that disappears around the corner. Stones lead from the driveway, which is currently absent of cars, to the wooden steps of the porch. The two slowly make their way up the slight incline, and enter the two-story home through a dark green door. It's warm and comforting on the inside, with a staircase to the right and a spacious living area to the left. A big picture window looks out over the front lawn and a fireplace showing much use is inlaid to the wall perpendicular to that. A white couch, matching plush chairs, and a coffee table sit opposite that, a small wall bracing the couch. Across from this decor is a full kitchen, complete with a marble island in the center, and dining room. Invading one wall of the dining room is a sliding glass door, which provides access to the rest of the porch and the giant backyard. Owen couldn't help but notice the aged swing set and slide duo residing towards the back near the short stone wall. Another thing that catches his eye is the number of photographs on the wall. Most are of Scott, his age ranging from baby to current, and his family. A sad thought then occurred to Owen: his mother didn't have nearly this many pictures of him around the house.

"Your parents must really love you..." he mumbles, still scoping out the house.

"Heh, yeah, but sometimes they can be a bit overbearing," Scott replies with a small laugh. "The excessive pictures can be obnoxious... Anyway, let's get you fixed up."

He leads Owen to the marble island in the center of the kitchen. "Sit on here, lest we get any blood on mom's new couch," he adds jokingly.

As Owen sits, the other rushes off down the hallway, which happens to fall underneath the stair case. Not tow minutes later is Scott rushing back out with his arms filled. A white first aid kit is in one hand and another brown bag in the other. To Owen, the brown bag resembles an old doctor's bag, like one doctors would bring around on house calls.

"You have quite the stash.." he says lightly, and manages a laugh. All this laugh does, however, is succeed in making him cough and his chest ache all the more.

Scott shoots him a look as if to say _Quit trying to make light of the situation and sit still._ Owen, receiving the message, obeys.

"Ok, what hurts most?" the blonde one asks, setting down both kits. "I'm guessing your ribs, due to their insistent kicking."

Owen nods, blinking back the few black spots that had momentarily tried to take over his vision.

"This is going to sound extremely awkward, but lift up your shirt," Scott says, his cheeks getting a slight dusting of pink on them.

The brunette stares at the other for a bit, trying to see any ill intent in his eyes, but finds none. He then obliges and pulls up his shirt just enough to expose his flat stomach and ribs. He winces and grimaces as Scott proceeds to wrap his abdomen in gauze, then tapes it down. When he pulls back, the upper half of his face is completely red.

Tilting his head, Owen asks, "Something wrong?" Though that may not be the best question to ask, given their current situation.

"N-no. Nothing." Scott runs a hand through his hair, then down his face. As he does so, the red fades from his face. "What else?"

Owen shakes his head, even though his entire body aches and he has the overwhelming urge to lay down. _All I want to do is sleep..._ he thinks to himself.

"Are you sure? 'Cause if you're one of those kids that just says nothing's wrong 'cause they don't wanna be a burden, I swear, I'll wrap your entire body in this stuff." The taller waves the roll of gauze menacingly in Owen's face.

The brunette just smiles and pushes the bandages away. "I-I'll be ok," he stutters, his chest telling him to stop forcing it to move. "B-but I should g-go..."

Scott just rolls his eyes. "Stop saying that, would you? I know that look, and it's the look of someone who can't bear the weight of whatever the hell is going on at home. And with recent incidents, I wouldn't want you to have any added stress."

The other is silent for a while, just thinking. Finally, he responds. "Why do you care so much?" he asks quietly. "I mean... We just met today, and now I'm sitting on your counter, in your house, getting bandaged up by _y-you_.."

Scott makes some kind of half scoff, half laugh noise. "You'd be surprised how many strangers I pull in off the street." Owen raises an eyebrow. "But that's a story for a different time." Scott finishes.

Owen then finds interest in his feet and falls completely silent. _I need to leave... But I don't want to go home... _he thinks sadly. _I wish my father was here..._ He then snaps himself out of his own mind, for those kind of thoughts never lead anywhere good. They mostly go down a path of sadness and lost memories.

"Hey." Scott sudden breaks the silence. "Let's go up to my room. It's much more comfortable than a kitchen counter."

*.*.*

_OHMYGOD. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? _I've been screaming this at myself ever since I confronted the bullies in the school parking lot. Not only is it weird that we've only just met and I brought Owen to my house, but I had to ask Owen to _lift his shirt_, and have now suggested the brilliant idea of _going to my room._ How insane am I?

I'm officially the weirdest, creepiest gay kid ever. I kind of hate myself. A lot. What the hell is wrong with me?

I mean, sure, he was hurt badly, and if I had just let it be, he could've been a lot worse off. But why did I bring him back to my house? Why didn't I just bring him to the hospital or call 9-1-1 or something... Normal?

I just hope he doesn't think I'm freaky...

And as we walk up the stairs to my room, I've been completely hands off. I practically carried him here, and that's enough touchy-feely for one day, especially with someone I _just freaking met._ Way to dive head first, self.

Well, I suppose what's done is done, and there's nothing I can do to change what I did. But I do have one last concern: when my mom gets home, she's going to kill me.

_(A/N: HELLO AGAIN! My god, it's been so long! I'm truly and deeply sorry for the wait ; n; but here it is! Part Five! Hope you like it C:_

_Also, I know it seems like this is all moving really fast and such, but don't worry, it's all under control. XD review, read, favorite, and all that jazz! And thanks to all of those who are bearing with me. You guys who read my stuff are seriously fantastic ; w;)_


End file.
